Ward of the White Worm

They say one never forgets their first train ride to the capital. The Seat of the Crown and Church, the Jewel of Avelorn, the City of the River and Sea, it had many titles but none of them were its true name. It was a City that Did Not Need A Name.

Going by foot or carriage each brought one to different views all bent to preparing one for the majesty of the City and so it followed that the railway would also have its own panorama for travelers aboard to see.

First were the Hills of Shepsdown, a scattering of hillocks which in the summer would be full of cows and the small hamth sheeps which grew fat on the fresh green grass and weeds that filled the hillocks. By the time of early autumn, the herds and flocks were moved down to the City or westwards to other grazing areas or towns which left behind the hillocks with the downy white blooms of angel feather flowers that would eventually be replaced by snow as winter came.

Afterwards were Spinsters Stones, standing megalithic rocks, each one grey and slender. The tops of them were often spoken to resemble the faces of aged women. There was said to be any number of them between fifty two and one hundred ninety five, no count was ever deemed complete due to illicit quarrying of the stones and yet never had in the hundreds of years of the stones standing have they ever seemed to be in danger of vanishing. Past the stones, the sky began to take a similar shade to them.

The train lurched slowly to one side, rounding a large hill (nothing so interesting on this in particular except an old well shaded by the remains of a beech tree that looked like it had folded over at some point in the past), to now follow its track closely to the bank of the Wole River. The Wole River was only five and a half meters wide but deep enough it was said to never give up it’s dead. It reflected the train rushing past and the deepening grey sky above with a blue tint that gradually became more muddy and cloudy as they approached the picturesque town of Wolth with its cheery wood cottages standing proudly besides demure and yet well made stone buildings. If one pulled down the window they would learn however that the pleasant picture did not smell as nice. Wolth was a town for skinners and leatherworkers, with the Wole River being a convenient place to toss the remains of their work into.

The train left the town of Wolth without stopping, to the mercy of everyone’s sense of smell. It now rumbled down its track across a lonely flat land, with tall trees sparsely scattered around as though carelessly tossed by some gigantic child.

The sky became more grey, now joined with clouds with ink-blot shapes and colors that rolled forward just as the train rumbled onwards.

Great granite plinths began to rise on either side of the tracks. Nothing stood atop them, instead they seemed to be barriers that shunted the train away from the trees and rolling glades around it. They became more common, more numerous, then they began to grow upwards. They arched slowly to form a ribcage like tunnel that strange creeping vines managed to make a home around. Then the ribs began to hold long metal cords, empty at first, but after a few minutes the train began to pass the withering remains of hanged men. Each had been left on their metal nooses to rot away, their bodies clad only in stained linen shirts and trousers if they had not already fallen off as the body beneath decayed to nothing.

The message was clear: commit crimes at your own peril.

The ‘ribs’ expanded slowly in width, shutting out the grey sky from above although gas-lamps now burned to illuminate a wide tunnel. These too however contained grisly displays, small alcoves in the tunnel walls covered in iron bars, decayed bodies huddled inside. The blind hand of justice did not distinguish between men or women, but made allowances for modesty and propriety.

The train began to gradually slow. It rumbled through the tunnel towards a faint grey light, soot blowing into the tunnel from a bellowing wind. The sound of the wheels on the tracks was joined by loud church bells, shouting, and the release of steam.

The tunnel terminated into a spacious train station, where the struggling light of the sky was allowed to permeate the platform thanks to the ceiling being made up of large panes of crystal held together by a framework of steel. Beyond that were incredible steel and iron structures, looming over the crystal panes with stone edifices that watched with black-shot windows for eyes. The sky was smothered with ten thousand upon hundred thousands of chimneys and factory furnaces belching their soot filled smog into the air, dark feathered birds darted in the airflow.

On the tallest bell towers and smoke stacks, one might even glance strange crouching figures, obscured by soot-stained wings.

The doors of the train were opened, and the cavalcade of arriving aristocrats emerged. Exhausted by the rattling of the train, few were in the mood to speak or listen, and all quickly said their adieus to each other, their ‘until the ball’s, the ‘speak with you during Parliament’, and other farewells as they left the spacious light filled platform and emerged onto a wide yet grime covered street flanked on one side by the station and on the other were numerous hotels bearing names in foreign languages or perhaps the name of a bucolic town or parish somewhere else. The Church of Ten Angels loomed behind them, its stumpy steeple painted a dull red color that contrasted with otherwise almost-white stone of the building.

Only once all were packed into a carriage, the door closed, and with a few moments of adjusting to the new constantly jostling that came from the poorly paved street, did the party of Graef finally speak to each other.

“It was a lovely ride,” Henrietta said with a nod, looking down at Olivia. “Do you agree?”

Olivia nodded, but for some reason Henrietta felt she was not actually listening. She was intently staring out the window as they traveled down a road framed with stores selling imported toys and fabrics.

“It loses its novelty over time,” Theodore said, leaning back against the padded seat of the carriage. He looked tired, his eyes half-closed. “Have you never come to the Capital, Miss Marsh?”

“Ah,” she sat up straighter in her seat, “I have only been on the outskirts once, and only briefly, sir.”

“I suppose you have never been to Grovecross?”

The name was only vaguely familiar to Henrietta. Something about a respectable merchant of meat having lived in the area. “No sir, I have not.”

“That is where we are going, the family manor there is Rotwood,” Theodore explained, “if you-Olli listen to me this is for you as well-if it ever comes that you should be lost then say you need to find Rotwood. It will bring you back, safely at that.”

“Sir-” something cool brushed near her ear. Theodore had reached out, and she felt a faint tug on her bonnet which now fit more securely onto her head. Theodore went back to leaning into his seat as though nothing had happened. Miss Marsh felt a prickling heat in the tips of her ears.

“Your bonnet’s ribbon was loose. It is more windy in Grovecross,” Theodore said, then closed his eyes.

“Are you tired?” Olli asked.

“A little,” Theodore said, “it’s just because I am hungry.”

“Are we going to eat when we get there?” Olli asked both adults.

“You two will have a good hot meal waiting,” Theodore said. “Perhaps take a walk afterwards. It cannot be good for young ladies to be still for so long.” Then Theodore went quiet, and despite the occasional question or even poke from Olli, he did not stir.

Henrietta herself was fine with sitting in silence, and turned her gaze outside the window. A steep hill went downwards, a clustering of tightly packed homes followed downwards before terminating at a small dock on a ink-black river. She could smell sea water and decay.